The Mysterious Stranger
by Sherringford Holmes
Summary: When a mysterious man turns up on your doorstep only Sherlock Holmes would be foolish enough to let him in. Not sure if I'll continue, depeneds on reviews and my muse. Bit of a one-shot that could turn into a story. I'm unsure.


Walking down the deadly quiet street, he looked back and saw a shadow conceal itself into a building, he knew he was being followed and he didn't know who it was. It didn't add up. He knew everything and the problem was he couldn't understand why this person was persistent on stalking him. It had been a good hour or two since he had felt the feeling of being followed, since he had smelt the cologne. When he turned to 221b Baker Street W1, he knew he was safe; for now, but it was only a matter of time until he found out how to disengage the security device, maybe they already knew it.

Pushing the door open he saw the stairs, looming in front of him. The door banged shut behind him. The wind that billowed in made his coat flap up and his raven hair was ruffled in the cold, winter's breeze.

"John? Come quickly," he shouted up the stairs, a scuffle was replaced by three loud bangs, and obviously he had just got out of the chair, and then grabbed his walking stick. He could hear the bangs of John walking down each step. He looked back at the door. The door handle creaked as it was turned from the outside. The security alarm that protected the door fizzled and sparked in anger as the door creaked open. So slowly, Sherlock backed carefully at the stairs.

The figured appeared as the door opened; the moon illuminated the outline of the figure it was a man; his silhouette, tall, broad, reasonably proportioned, dark hair, with a dark grey coat; he closed the door behind him but the moons rays seeped through the window above the door.

Sherlock slowly mustered the courage. He walked forward and started to head towards the mysterious figure, now on the last step, he stopped. John was creeping down the stairs, he had obviously figured out what was going on. He slowly walked down the stairs, his stick making a faint thudding noise.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked the intruder, he got answered by a grumble.

"What are you doing here?" John said walking down the step above the one that Sherlock was standing on.

"I know you...Sherlock Holmes," he rasped, it was a man in his late 40's early 50's perhaps.

"And…," Sherlock asked, taking another step forward "why are you here? Following me?"

"I need you to help me," he said "you're the one who can help me,"

"Step into the light, and then I'll see what I can do," Sherlock says "And how do I know I can trust you?"

"You can, because I know you can't resist a challenge about whom and what I am and why I'm here, asking for you," he replied, turning to the lamp next to him. The lamp clicked on at the base of the bulb with a nasty crack! His face was suddenly illuminated by the orangey glow.

His face was scarred and blistered, just on the one side, the right. His expression was grim and depressed; wrinkles of disapproval littered his face. His hair, black, with jet stream grey streaked through it with age and stress, his skin, tanned slightly, bleached by the summer sun that had disintegrated into autumn, then to winter. The man's clothes were in a respectable state, grey, silk sheen, but not too expensive. A gun was in its holster, partially concealed by his dark grey coat.

"So, what can you deduce Mr. Holmes?" he asked through cracked and dry lips, holding up his arms, palms facing the ceiling.

"Well…," Sherlock searched for the word "sir," he said "what would you like me to start with?"

"How about, name and where I've travelled from?" the man replied, then he added "feel free to search my pockets, and come closer to take a better look,"

Sherlock nodded and took a step forward, the orange glow inviting him in from the harsh darkness he had been standing in at the base of the stairs.

"Sherlock…" John said dangerously as Sherlock took another step towards the mystery man "how do you know you can trust him, you've only just met him, and now he wants you to find out who he is, just leave it, stop trying to prove you're clever, just stop and realize this from realistic point of view Sherlock," he turned his attention to the mystery man and added "please leave," which he gained a furious glare from the man stood in the hallway.

"I do thank you from your concern but I have to admit, I'll be fine thank you John," Sherlock said, taking another step so he was close to the man. Suddenly! It all happened in a rush. Sherlock was in a bone crunching headlock and was struggling as the man had a blade to his neck.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as the man started dragging him out the door

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted back as he was being strangled to silence him and knock him out, seeing this wasn't working the man then reached to his coat and pulled out a hypodermic needle and jabbed it into his arm. Slowly, Sherlock stopped writhing and eventually he slumped into the man's arms, who then threw him over his shoulder, then started to run off into the night.

John was stunned and started to run after the man, the dark shadows shouted danger and the street lamps only let him see the safe zones of the dark night, as if they wanted to guide his way to save his friend but it was too late, the kidnapper was no-where to be seen. Disappeared into the cold autumn transitional night.


End file.
